Sunday, February 7, 2021
Sunday's Sport Stats: Rough Contact by Beth Bolden
Their romance is forbidden. Their love is a secret.
Neal Fisher knows heartbreak. It's the clock ticking down in the Super Bowl. It's missing the most important field goal of his life. It's losing everything: his thirteen year career as an NFL kicker, his future, and his pride.
Jamie Wright knows love. It's everything on the line as the crowd holds their breath. It's a perfect kick as the ball soars through the goal posts. It's NFL fame and glory laid out before him.
Neal is on his way out, and Jamie--if he can withstand the tryout pressure-- is on his way in. The one person Jamie should avoid is the veteran kicker, and the last thing Neal wants is to sink Jamieās chances. But a chance meeting and a wild and undeniable chemistry proves to be irresistible.
Neal thought he knew heartbreak. Jamie thought he knew love.
They were both wrong.
Their romance is forbidden. Their love is a secret.
But if they trust each other, maybe their growing relationship won't end in tragedy. It might even be the beginning of footballās greatest love story.
Prologue
February 2021
It was the shortest field goal of Neal Fisherās life, and also the longest.
His breath came in choppy, uneven pants as he jogged onto the field with the rest of the kicking unit. He couldnāt calm himself, no matter how much he tried to slow both his breath and the uncooperative heart thundering away in his chest.
Heād kicked this distance a thousand times, probably more, but heād never done it under these circumstancesāeven though the Los Angeles Riptide had won plenty of games on his leg alone before. But theyād never won a Super Bowl when he was the one responsible for the three extra points that would put them on top.
Last year when theyād won, it had been all Sam Crawford and Chase Riley. Theyād done their best this time around, too, hoping they might do what very few teams in the modern era of professional football had doneārepeat Super Bowl winsābut it hadnāt been quite enough, and Sam and Chase had come up short. āItās okay, itās good,ā Sam had chanted when heād returned to the sideline, āFisherās gonna get it done for us.ā
Almost always when Neal kicked, the world retreated into a fuzzy approximation of reality, but maybe there was just way too much fucking reality happening today, because right now, he couldnāt get back into his own head again. The noise of the crowd was deafening, a loud cacophony ringing in his ears, reminding him of every single person who was watching here, at the stadium, and also of all those millions watching on their televisions.
The hardest people to forget were his team, all braced on the sideline, relegated and resigned to the act of observation. All of them, counting on him to do the job for which he was paid very wellāto kick a ball dead straight for forty-four yards. That was all. Piece of fucking cake.
He could make this kick a hundred times in a row in practice. A thousand. But in front of millions, with the whole game riding on him? That was why he was one of the highest-paid kickers in football. Still, it was hard not to sweat, not to feel the pressure begin to press in on him.
Neal thought he caught a flash of blond hair out of the corner of his eye. Sam must have taken his helmet off, and kneeled, as he often did, when their games came down to one of Nealās kicks.
Right now the announcers would be analyzing the distance of the kickāforty-four yardsāthe angleāpretty much dead centerāand the windāa slight breeze but nothing Neal was particularly worried aboutāand theyād be putting up stats on the bottom of the screen, talking about how heād never missed a kick in a big-time situation. Of course, heād never kicked to win a Super Bowl, but heād kicked and won them a playoff game, once, three years ago. In their Super Bowl run last year, heād been merely incidental, only being called on to kick the extra points as Sam threw the touchdowns that had led to their victory.
āYou good?ā Jon, the long snapper, nudged him with an elbow. Aware, as they always had to be, that not only were their actions observed by everyone, but there were some crazed weirdos out there that tried to read their lips, too. Nothing was secret on a football field. Especially not this football field.
āIām good,ā Neal said, and meant it. Maybe he hadnāt been in this exact situation before, but he wasnāt going to let the pressure get to him. He was going to make the kick. He could already feel his foot hit the ball just right, could already see it soaring through the uprights. Could feel the way Sam would smack right into him, in some approximation of a bear hug.
It was already all there. It existed somewhere, in some version of some reality. Neal just had to make it happen in this one.
The referee indicated it was time, and since the Miami Piranhas, the opposing team, didnāt even have a timeout left, there was nothing to do but to watchāthey couldnāt even āiceā him, or force him to make the kick a second time by calling a timeout at the last second.
Jon got set, and Neal nodded down at the holderāwho was also their punter, Ian. He was set too. Everyone was set. Neal tamped down the sudden nerves that swamped him. It was just another day, just another kick.
Kicks always went so fast. Jon snapped the ball flawlessly, Ian caught it and then suddenly he was kicking it, right where he needed to, right as heād intended. The moment it left his foot, it felt perfect, just like heād wanted it to, just like it had felt a hundred times before, a thousand.
Except, then, suddenly the ball veered off to the right, then hit the crossbar, and Neal stared disbelievingly as it fell forward.
His first thought was, thatās a mistake. Then he realized, a half second later, as the Miami Piranhas poured joyously on the field, that was my mistake. I missed it. The single biggest kick of my entire career, and I just fucking blew it.
Somehow, Neal got pushed to the sideline, though he wasnāt even sure how heād made it from the center of the field to the Riptideās side. He couldnāt force his head up because he might be forced to see the wrenching disappointment in everyoneās faces. He thought Sam came up, the flash of blond hair too distinctive, and felt, for a brief second, the press of a hand on his shoulder pad. āItās alright, dude,ā Sam might have said. Or it might have been a, āFuck you.ā Neal wasnāt sure he could distinguish, not right now, not when suddenly, inexplicably, heād gone from the most important person on the team to the least.
Heād known then that things were going to change. But heād never guess that a single missed kick would alter his whole life.
*****
āIām glad you could come by today.ā Michael Turner, the assistant director of player personnel for the Los Angeles Riptide, propped a hip on the corner of his desk.
Every single time Neal faced his boyfriend across the expanse of office carpeting, done in gaudy shades of teal and aqua, he found it awkward. Heād known it would be when theyād started to date, but even though heād learned to tamp most of his reaction down, he still felt the echoes of it.
But today? The awkwardness was back in spades, and it had been from the moment Neal had missed that stupid fucking kick less than a week earlier.
Everything had changed in a second, and in the five days since. It hung there, unspoken, when Neal had gone to clean out his locker. When heād done a few workouts in the player facilities. When heād been in the steam room after a particularly brutal set of reps, and a few of the defensive players had come in and taken one look at him and hadnāt said a goddamn word. It had been there, ugly and pervasive, between him and Michael. Like Michael couldnāt quite look at him, not in the eye. Neal couldnāt even blame him, because he couldnāt look at his own self in the mirror. Not anymore.
There was a rumor that one of the Piranhas had tipped the kick, but Neal hadnāt been able to bring himself to watch the footage to see for himself. Heād rather walk barefoot over hot lava.
āYeah,ā Neal said shortly. What was he supposed to say? No, Iām not coming? I know what youāre going to do and I can avoid it forever if I avoid coming here?
āYouāre a valuable member of this organization,ā Michael said kindly. Lied kindly.
Neal had been a valuable member of his organization, signed right out of college when the Riptide had been an expansion team. Heād played for Los Angeles for his entire career. Heād been rock solid, never missing when he needed to make it. He might not be able to routinely kick the sixty-yard field goals that were the new norm, but he could reliably kick in the high fifties, and there werenāt a lot of kickers out there who could say that.
But all it took was one miss. And a miss in front of millions? It erased every good thing heād ever done. Neal felt empty inside, as Michael smiled, full of cold sympathy. āI told them I wanted to do it, because itād be easier coming from me.ā
Neal hadnāt ever come out officially, but he and Michael, who was out, whoād been one of the first gay executives in professional football, were an open secret. When theyād started to date, Michael had made lots of promises, both to his boss, and to Neal. Weāll never let our personal and professional relationship intersect, heād vowed, and Neal had agreed because that was something heād wanted, too.
Except now, they werenāt separate at all. They were intertwined, staring at him in the corner, the ugly elephant in the room.
āIs that really what you think?ā Neal asked. Heād told himself when heād dressed this morning for this meeting that heād take the punishment. But that was when he thought heād be meeting with Michaelās boss.
āThat it doesnāt have to be hard? Of course it doesnāt. You can just turn around and walk away, and things will go back to the way they were before.ā
Except Neal already knew that couldnāt happen. He could see it in Michaelās eyes, which had gone inexplicably cold.
It was salt in the wound that it was going to be the man he loved, who heād thought loved him, who was going to be the one to tell him that his services were no longer required by the Riptide. The only team heād ever known. Before this moment, heād even stupidly believed they were like a family.
But family didnāt come and go. Family didnāt judge. Family accepted you, even when you fucked up. Even when you fucked up at the worst time imaginable.
It was his own goddamn mistake, Neal realized, heād forgotten what it was that ran this league. Money. And heād just lost the Riptide a whole fuckton of money.
āWell, not exactly how it was before,ā Michael added, still painfully sympathetic, but at least he was being more honest now. In the two years since theyād begun dating, his blond hair had started to gray at the temples, and trying to marshal his temper, Neal focused on those silvering strands. Because he knew what Michael meant. Knew that it wasnāt just his job he was losing.
He'd known because Michael couldnāt even look at him anymore. How could you have a relationship with someone who blamed you every single moment of every single day?
āI didnāt think so,ā Neal growled.
āAt the time, it was a good fit,ā Michael said. āBut now . . .ā
Neal stood abruptly. He was a grown man, but he felt like a goddamn child, anger flaring through him, burning through all his self-control, unleashing things that heād only thought about in the dark of night, when he couldnāt sleep. āIs that what I was to you? An accurate, reliable convenience?ā
āYou were a valuable member of the Riptide organization . . .ā Michael said smoothly, then stopped abruptly, in the middle of his fucking platitude, no doubt realizing what heād just said.
Were.
āYeah, I thought so.ā Neal shoved his hands into the pockets of his khakis. āI fucking thought so.ā
Michaelās handsome face didnāt flinch. āNow, thereās no need to get angry. You know . . . you know we canāt keep you on this team. Not after . . .ā He couldnāt even say it out loud. After you lost us our place in history, the only modern team to repeat Super Bowl wins. āAfter what happened,ā Michael finished awkwardly.
āAfter I missed the kick?ā Neal ground out. āYou can say it, itās not going to kill you.ā
Just me. Itās only gonna end up killing me. Everyone else will go on, move on, focus on next year, but Iāll be stuck there forever, in that moment.
āThereās plenty of teams that are going to want you, Neal,ā Michael said.
Neal wondered if heād written down a whole list of painful platitudes to recite ahead of time. Wondered if heād made Gavin, his assistant, put them on notecards, and heād memorized them that way.
That seemed like exactly the kind of shitty, heartless thing that Michael would do. At some point, Neal had found it amusing, the bloodless way he went about his job, how he was all cool, clear-cut logic. But that was before Michael had turned all that logic onto him, and Neal discovered that he didnāt give a shit if it cut him and left him a bloody fucking mess.
It was like seeing him for the first time; and realizing that maybe heād loved something that had never really existed at all.
āBut not you,ā Neal countered.
āThe Riptide are going in a different direction next season,ā he said. His face softened, just a little, but it felt so calculating, and the veil had been lifted from Nealās eyesāheād never be able to see Michael again, with those gorgeous blue eyes, and be able to see them as anything other than painfully cold.
āAnd you?ā
āMe?ā Michael had the nerve to sound surprised, like he couldnāt believe that Neal was dragging their relationship into this. Like he hadnāt just fucked Neal into the mattress and dried his tears only a few days ago. Like he hadnāt seen how destroyed Neal was after the game. Like he didnāt know just how much Neal wanted to forget and had done his best to help him.
āYou,ā Neal retorted. āThatās what weāre talking about, right? Because every single fucking sports reporter, when theyāre not covering Colin OāConnorās victorious retirement, is predicting how fast the Riptide is going to release me.ā
āWe talked about this,ā his boyfriend said carefully, āthat we wouldnāt let our relationship intrude into Riptide business.ā
He had. Heād promised. And then when the time came to let Neal go, to put the final nail in his coffin, heād volunteered to hold the hammer.
It was impossible not to take that personally. Michael could say all he wanted to that he thought itād be easier if he delivered the blow himself, but he wasnāt stupid. He knew Neal. Almost better than anybody else, which was particularly galling in this horrible moment.
āYeah,ā Neal said shortly. āExactly.ā
āWhat are you trying to say?ā
āIām trying to say, you sure didnāt waste any time twisting the knife you just shoved in my back,ā Neal sneered.
āThatās not . . .ā Michael stopped abruptly. āMaybe itās better this way, anyway. I was going to give you some time to adjust, but yes, maybe youāre right. Maybe itās better to just kill two birds with one stone.ā
The sudden shift in his toneāresolute and resigned, like heād always planned it would happen this wayāwas like an ugly kaleidoscope, further revealing what he was really capable of. How had Neal never seen it before? He didnāt know, but he was furious now. Furious that heād opened himself up to someone who had turned out not to give a single shit.
Someone who could sit there while he cried and plan how to further ruin his life.
āIt sure fucking is better this way,ā Neal spat out. āI canāt fucking believe that I ever thought you cared about me. Not when . . . not when . . .ā He found he couldnāt finish the thought, that voicing how much heād thought Michael cared about him but never had, hurt like fucking hell.
Heād thought missing that forty-four-yard field goal in the Super Bowl was the most humiliating experience of his entire life, but no, it was this.
Realizing that the man heād thought he loved was a dead-eyed stranger, who couldnāt wait to briskly dismiss him, like heād meant nothing to him or to the team heād loved.
āItās over,ā Michael said, and Neal knew he meant everything.
Nealās gaze fell on the framed photo on his desk. The one heād given him for his last birthday, or was it their anniversary? He couldnāt remember, and suddenly, even seeing it, their arms wrapped around each other, celebrating the first LA Riptide Super Bowl win, rings flashing on their fingers, was too much. He grabbed it, the wooden edges digging into his palm.
āWhat are you doing?ā Michael asked, voice guarded. And yeah, Neal thought with vicious victory, he actually sounded worried now. āDo I need to call security?ā
Neal stared at him. āYou gonna kick me out?ā
āIf youāre going to make a scene, yes.ā Michaelās hand strayed towards the phone on his desk, and Neal knew heād do it no matter what, because not only was their relationship an open secret, he wouldnāt be surprised if every single person in this whole facility thought he should be punished for his crime.
What could be more of a punishment than dragging him, disgraced and alone, out of his ex-boyfriendās office?
āIām taking this,ā Neal said.
āYou canāt, because thatās mine,ā Michael said, extending his hand.
He didnāt know how theyād ended up here, fighting over a picture in a ten-dollar frame. Just a week ago, before the game that had changed everything, theyād exchanged āI love yous,ā like they had hundreds of times before. Michael had told him that he believed in him. But had he really? Neal thought of his older sister, Ella, and how sheād never really warmed to Michael. How heād never really understood her lack of acceptance and her reticence. And now, it all made sense. Sheād seen it, long before he ever did.
āActually, itās mine,ā Neal said. āIt was mine before, and itās still mine.ā It was so stupid to fight over this stupid goddamned picture, but there wasnāt much left of his shredded, tattered pride and he was going to own whatever still existed.
āNeal.ā Michael uttered it warningly, and suddenly there was a discreet knock on the door and then it opened and Terry, the head of security for the Riptide, walked in.
āEverything alright?ā he asked, glancing from Neal to Michael.
āNeal was just leaving,ā Michael said smoothly, like he fired his boyfriends all the time. āAnd heās leaving that behind.ā He pointed, indicating the picture in his hands.
Nealās grip on the frame tightened. Was he really going to make a point of this? After everything?
Terry reached out and, with an apologetic look, tried to pluck it from his fingers. Neal didnāt really blame him; after all, Michael was kind of his boss, too.
āCome on, Neal, donāt be childish,ā Michael said patronizingly.
āChildish?ā Neal spit out. āOh, for fuckās sake. Take the fucking picture.ā He was a kicker for a livingānot a pitcherābut he prided himself on being in excellent shape. He flung the picture, just to the left of Michaelās stupidly handsome face, and fucking finally, felt something that wasnāt resignation or anger or disappointment. A savage sense of satisfaction swept through him as his ex flinched, and the picture crashed into the wall in a shower of wood and glass splinters.
Michael gaped first at him, and then at the shattered remnants of the frame. His expression hardened and then he pointed to Terry. āGet him out of here,ā he said, and that was how Neal Fisher ended up not only being let go from the Los Angeles Riptide, but escorted off the property.
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Author Bio:
A lifelong Oregonian, Beth Bolden has just recently moved to North Carolina with her supportive husband and their sweet kitten, Earl Grey. Beth still believes in Keeping Portland Weird, and intends to be just as weird in Raleigh.
Beth has been writing practically since she learned the alphabet. Unfortunately, her first foray into novel writing, titled Big Bear with Sparkly Earrings, wasnāt a bestseller, but hope springs eternal. Sheās published eighteen novels and six novellas.
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